How to Survive Your Psych Family
by Grigiocuore
Summary: How can you survive with a workaholic detective Mom, a super-sniffer Dad and a couple of loving, crazy uncles? Tim and Mina Guster seem to manage pretty well. A series of one-shots about love, parenthood, burning tonsils and family. Established Shassie, established Gus/Jules, (not so) future fic.
1. Probably Weird, Never Disarmed

_Hi everyone! Here we are with a series of tiny one-shots about the Guster kids and their strange, loving, psych-o enlarged family: so cheesy, I know, but I'm sure some of you long for good fuzzy feelings as much as me. Beware, the couples would be Shassie and Gules, so I threw canon out of the window. I'm working also on the story about Jules and Gus' son's birth (you really thought it would be all simple and normal? Ah, such dreamers!), but I prefer preparing some chapters before publishing. There would be a lot of Hurt/Comfort, but basically it would be a study of Carlton and Juliet's friendship, as to say, one of the most touching links I've ever seen in a TV show. For now, I hope you'll enjoy these little slices of life. _

_And yes, I called him Tim exactly for the reason you're thinking about. _

**Probably Weird, Never Disarmed**

Tim Guster knew there was something weird in his family; not creepy-weird like Uncle Shawn's Halloween costumes, but more a easy, cheery weird like Dad's chocolate-bacon cookies. For example, the fact that was Daddy doing almost all the cooking. Yes, Mom could prepare a real face of fruit on the muesli, with banana slices as eyes and all the rest, but it's Dad who cooked dinner and set up his lunch box for the school. Mom could do a lot of awesome things, but cooking was_ not_ one of them. The Thanksgiving turkey was proof of it.

And that was another strange thing; many kids at school had a cop parent, but Tim had a cop Mom: it was Dad who put them to bed when she hadn't come home yet, and sprang on his feet when a police car stopped in front of home. She was a detective, the one that "beats up the bad guys", as Uncle Shawn said, and this was cool because his friends gasped every time she arrived at school with the handcuffs; but it made him angry when they asked if she put him in prison per punishment. They didn't understand that she was also the best Mom in the world: they didn't understand how sweet she was when helping him with homework, or that she was the one who bought them the jelly bears after the doc and gave them the Fear Festival tickets as soon as the posters arrived in city. They didn't understand that she had a wardrobe full of pointy shoes and fluffy stuff just like their moms, and that his dad too took a zillion of photos on his first day of school.

His parents did everything parents were supposed to do; only, they did it in their way.

-But that's strange.- Bobby Anderson objected at the canteen, freckled cheeks full of mashed potatoes. -There are girl things and boy things, everyone knows that. My mom said that those gender confusions are what is wrecking California.-

Tim furrowed his brow, not stopping eating his muffin. -My Mom catches bad guys, my Dad...well, he fixes everything and makes people feel better; to me California seems just fine.-

-It's not what I mean.- Bobby squirmed, clearly in a tight spot. Tim smirked, _Nobody messes with the Gusters. _

-I just, I just said that it's not _how_ it works.-

-But it _works_.-

Bobby squinted, frantically looking for a snarky remark. One second, two, and a triumphant smile split his lips. -Well, what about your uncles?- he snarled, looking around for support. -You know, they really are _odd_.- A choir of not-compromising comments rose around the table.

Meanwhile, Bobby had kept using that big mouth of his. -...I mean, they're two men: it can't be normal, or at least my dad said so.-

Tim swallowed pensively his bite, thinking about the two men he knew from the first day of his life. They were _definitively_ odd: he was pretty sure no other uncle in his school did B-movie Marathons with Uncle Shawn's passion, or owned a collection of fake mustaches like Uncle Carlton; and he was pretty sure no other uncle lived with, or kissed, another man. But for him, it was just how the world worked, one of the things that kept Tim's world spinning in the proper way: if his uncles wouldn't bicker and kiss and laugh anymore, well, something would be really wrong.

He talked a lot about them, but mostly about the pranks Uncle Shawn tried on his Dad or the afternoons he and Uncle Carl spent playing Civil War; what they were together was just one of those things you saw so many times you didn't notice it, and at the same time should always be here. Part of life.

And like most of weird things, it felt perfectly _right_.

Tim put down his dessert, considering his options. He could try to gently persuade Bobby and then, if not working, scare him to hell, just like his mom; or dazzled him with some gruesome Scientific discovers, as his father would do; or listen to Uncle Shawn and finally reveal that _yeah_, he knew Bobby wet the bed up to seven.

But in the end, he opted for Uncle Carlton's advise. _Mess up with the suspect and retire with style._

Tim got up, picking up his tray.

-Yeah, you may be right, Bobby.- He leaned forward, wolfish grin on his lips.

-But one of my uncles wears a _gun_.-


	2. Not (entirely) like a Cartoon

_Second chap of my Family stories! Sorry for the delay, but I'm working on (too) many projects at the same time. Anyhow, a little thing about Gus becoming a dad. A buddy-to-buddy talk everyone should have. Let me know if you want something like that for Lassie and Jules too._

_Thanks for the support, as always._

**Not (entirely) like a Cartoon**

The first thing Shawn did when he became an uncle, was to buy a popsicle. Not for him but for the father, of course.

-There- he pushed the azure snack under Gus's nose. -To restore your strenght.-

-It's not me the one that did all the work, Shawn. And_ I'm_ fine. Perfectly fine.-

Shawn rolled his eyes. His best friend had stopped breathing by Jules's first scream, and was currently hugging his plastic chair like the world's destiny depended on it. With the shirt buttoned in the wrong order and the eyes bulging out, he seemed a mix between the Shining kid and a very miserable refugee. -Yeah, you're fresh as a lily. C'mon, take the popsicle.-

His best friend grabbed it greedily, and Shawn sat beside him. A large first grade-like smile blossomed on Gus's face. -Oh, it has sprinkle cute.-

-Of course man.-

They licked their snacks in silence, pretending that nothing had happened in the previous hour and that they really felt like grown people. The maternity ward was nice, a blur of creamy-colored walls, sturdy nurses in pink scrubs and blow-ups of due-eyed cartoon pups. Comforting, if not for the terrible screams resounding behind the doors.

-Where is Lassie?-

-Talking with the nurses again, or playing the Unflappable Guy in some other ways.-

They snorted, bumping fists without even looking.

Gus took a deep breath. -I can't believe it.-

-That the nurse who flirted with me looked like Gerald Butler? Very disturbing, considering she was a woman.-

-No.- Gus was too freaked out to appreciate his humor. -That we are _here, _like _that_. I mean, I'm going to have a baby, we got a loan, we are married.-

-Technically I'm not married, I have a life partner.-

-And technically you're an idiot. What I'm saying is, we are adults now. We are real persons. Not cartoons.-

Shawn stopped, his tongue mid-air to the popsicle.

-Yeah.- he said quietly. -Yeah.-

Gus began gesticulating. -And I was thinking, Am-am I ready to do it? I've prepared everything, really, I even called the most exclusive kindergarten of Santa Barbara to be ahead from the start, _and stop looking at me like that, Shawn_. But having kids means so much more: it means giving them advice about the girls, being loving but stern when they got their first punch, understanding when they're ready to get up and go on with their own legs. It means being the leader, the "Father". I'm a pharmaceutical rep that spends his days snooping around with his best friend and eats marshmellows at breakfast. Gosh, I _cry_ watching Grey's Anatomy. How, how can I do it? How can I be the "Father"?-

Gus turned to him, and Shawn instantly knew how serious he was. After more than thirty years of shared life you might not grasp the other's soul by his meaningful gaze, but sure you learnt how to read his face. So he saw the worry, the fear, the crushing love for Jules and the squirming slimy demon she had just pushed out. The things he didn't say aloud.

Shawn gave him a smile too old and too real to be charming.

-First of all, Christina's farewell has been a terrible blow for us all, so crying for Grey's Anatomy is just human. And second, man- he offered. -you're _more_ than ready; simply because it's what you do the best. You get worry for your friends and give them thorny advices and annoy them to no end, exactly like a good parent should do. Gus, you've been my dad for all this life and half of the precendent. You have listened to _all my crap_; you've kept me from falling two-thousand times, with the bike and without.-

He shrugged. -You've always been a Dad; and this is so much better than to be a Father.-

They let the words sink in. Another scream from the room twenty-one.

-Are you...are you serious? I'll do it good? - Gus stared at him tentatively, hope flickering in his eyes. - It won't be a crazy foolish rush like always?-

-_Of course_ it would be, buddy; it would be the wackiest, dumbest, wildest adventure of our whole life.- He affectionately patted Gus's knee. -And as always, we won't regret a single moment.-

-Even if we're not cartoons?-

Shawn snickered. -C'mon, we'll _always_ be cartoons.-

Gus nodded, finally letting go the poor chair. Someone was barking orders down the corridor, probably, by the " fallen comrade" reference, Lassie himself, but the ward was quiet. They didn't talk further; they didn't need to.

Until a question popped in his mind.

-Shawn, in a cartoon family, which character would we be?-

Shawn leaned back, thoughtfully crossing his ankles. -Well, that's easy: Jules the Super Mom with control issues; I the Strange but Super-Cool Uncle that cover up for your kids after the curfew...-


	3. Tim Guster and the IKEA Conspiracy

_I watched again Juliet Takes a Luvvah, and seeing Jules freaking out about a bricolage moment this idea just popped out from my head. Heavily inspired by Real Life experiences. I sincerely apologize to Sweden and Swedish people, but it's not me. It's the characters' fault._

_Basically, fluffy (sort of) Bromance between my dearest detectives. Beware, next chap will be pretty tough._

**Tim Guster and the IKEA Conspiracy**

Back to the beginning, it had seemed a pretty simple plan. Mom had to go to the Ikea, she found the perfect bookshelf, they found Uncle Carlton seeking a blower after Uncle Shawn used it to shoot water balloons. She asked nicely if he could help her, he answered nicely that he would. It was a Billy, the easiest friendliest furniture ever. Practically foolproof. They would be done in a moment.

It had _not_ been a moment.

-O'Hara, read it again. Slowly, this time.-

-Carlton, we've done it a zillion times. It's not like reading it well would magically put the damn screw in place.-

-You don't articulate well the words, this is the problem. _Articulate_, for God's sake.-

-It's not a poem, it's a stupid instruction book.-

Tim sighed, shacking his head. His mother and his uncle, _yes, the ones who could look a murderer in the eye and rimontare a gun in less than ten seconds_, were currently crouched on the living room's carpet, surrounded by poor wood relics like shipwrecked and looking pretty much as distraught. From the moment they opened the packaging they had in order: babbled about the simple joys of bricolage, read the English instructions, not understood a word, drunken three tons of coffee, tried the Hindi version, blamed the other and the world and everything from the dawn of time on. Now they were soaked with sweat and looked on the edge of tears, or of murder.

_Or both, knowing them._

-Ah, you guys wanna something to drink?- Tim asked tentatively. _Retreat now, now NOW._

Their eyes shot toward him, gleaming with feverish fervor. -No- they grumbled together.

-Ah, uh, okay. Sure you don't need a han...-

They leapt over the mess of Swedish brilliance, like they should defend an harmless child from a particularly wicked serial killer. -_No!_-

-O, okay.- Tim repeated, slower. He exchanged a glance with Mina, nodded, and saw her stealthily saunter along the corridor. Out of earshot.

-Okay, okay O'Hara, I get it, _I get it_. We were putting the A thing in the C stuff while fastening the K doodad, but it was wrong, because what we should do is putting the C stuff in the K doodad while turning the A thing. See, see, it's working, it's _working_.-

-Carlton, the K doodad doesn't exist.-

Uncle Carl let out a sound between a locomotive and a dying seal.

He afflosciarsi on the carpet, followed almost immediately by Mom, staring at the ceiling with the contemplative despair of a fallen hero. Tim checked his watch, sighing. How was he going to explain Erin why he was so late for their date?

Meanwhile, the definitively-not-factotum detectives hadn't moved. His uncle took a dramatic breath, carefully. -It's physically impossible that two great detectives, two skilled, experienced professionists with our curriculum are unable to built a damn bookshelf. Physically impossible and morally unacceptable. So there is just one option left.- He sprang up suddenly, one vein pulsing so hard Tim really feared the stroke. -A conspiracy.-

_Oh my._

Mom beamed. -Yes, _of course_, a conspiracy. It's not possible to built this thing because they don't want it to be built, they want us to get_ crazy_.-

-And invade us afterwards. You know Sweden was a Nazi alley in World War II?-

-Little grubby Swedish. And their cookies are _so_ good they have to be suspect.-

-You're starting to understand, O'Hara, you're starting to understand. But we have caught them. They won't ever spread mayhem again, not with us around.-

-I'll get a warrant for tomorrow, we'll call the SWAT. We'll bring them down.-

-And we'll take all the cookies.-

At the cookie part Tim started to get alarmed. Luckily, his sister heels clacked back along the corridor. Mina stopped beside him, the cell in one hand and the pink-lipsticked lips parted in a perfect disconcerted "O". Poor kid didn't remember the fridge ordeal of 2015.

He crossed his arms.

-Have you made the call?-

-Yeah. Uncle Buzz would be here in ten minutes.-

After all, sometimes all you can do is calling backup.


	4. Not (entirely) like a Cartoon II

_Semi-serious chap, this time. I was preparing another one but, alas, you know something characters could be very not-collaborative. Written with Grey's Anatomy soundtrack, so a little bit of fluff and a little bit of rude lucidity. Serious!Shawn, I think it's something to say._

_Heavily inspired by Horace's philosophy, or better, by my Mom's philosophy. And so I dedicate this little thing to her._

_Carpe diem, my friends. Being a little Shawn-y is not bad._

_P.S.: Thanks so much for your support. It's priceless._

**Not (entirely) like a Cartoon II**

He was watching Lassie playing with the kids, even if Shawn wasn't a sturdy Southern lady in printed flannel and it was not the end of a . They were playing Cowboys and Indians, or some version for history nerds with a ton more of rules. Tim was pouting wildly under his serious blue eyes, Mina was raging like the fluffy tight-curled pain in the ass she was. Their uncle was reprimanding his troops with the least convincing scowl of his career.

-Mina, you're supposed to be an Indian princess and Tim is your hostage. So you can't smacking him, _removing his scalp yes_, but not smacking.-

-I don't want to fight with her and kill you, Uncle Carl.-

-You have to, man. If you kill me you'll have her trust, and can save the regiment. It's your Colonel's order.-

Shawn and Gus would be absolutely glad to partecipate and mess up with his detective with some historical blunders, but their left legs were both casted in giant plaster casts after the Blueberry had had a close encounter with a tree. Repeatedly.

_You're idiot beyond redemption_, Jules had declared out of the hospital. Lassie had been manhandling the wheelchairs, probably not to manhandle them. _You just don't understand that you could have died? That you're not cartoons?_

Shawn had done nothing but smiling like a fool, because Jules was perfectly right and perfectly wrong. Because _yes_, he was childish, careless, stupidly optimistc like every prideful person is, and _yes_, he knew it too well. He knew that people die in lousy ways, that crap happens without any suspence music, that the greatest feelings wore off or twisted or simply changed beyond recognizable before you realized it. He had been trained to find the cracks, to scratch uder the surface people walked on. Equilibrium. Safety. Loyalty. _Be good and the world will be good with you, there's no place like home, eye for an eye._ His father never really let him delude himself, and today Shawn still don't know if it was a good or bad thing. Someday one of them would be too fool, they could say something irreparable, or just wake up and discover not to see the others in the same way; and they would be again just a bunch of awkward misfits without a place.

_That_ was the reason why he tried to remember everything, every single idiotic or scary or weird moment; enjoying them, grabbing them and putting them in cans like stocks for the winter. To have something to hold when all would go downhill, and let less space for regrets. So he would run and cry with Gus and argue and kiss with Lassie and flirt with Jules until he could breathe, because this, _oh_, this was definitively not a cartoon.

-Alas, blasted powers of greed and bloodlust, my own men turned against me. But you wouldn't have me without a fierce fight!- Lassie babbled, waving Gus's laser sword over a buzz of squeaking nephews. However he hadn't been fast enough, because suddenly he dropped on his knees, clutching his chest with the grossest fake wheezes ever. He wavered to Tim, wearily. -Timothy Alpha Eagle, me boy, seek vengance for me...-

-I would do, my Colonel, I would do. Please sir, don't go, _don't go toward the light_.-

-It's too late for me, boy. But you don't...give up...the fight.- With a last gurgle the detective collapsed on the grass, throwing in a pair of convulsions too. Mina let out an Indian yell of victory.

Gus snorted, flashing concealed snapshots with his IPhone. Shawn followed.

There would be a day when he would run no more around like a _very, very happy fool_, because his bones and his heart would be too old; there would be a day when all of that would be lost, or rotten. There would be a day when he would no more watching Lassie playing with the kids like a good Southern lady.

He shot up from the armchair at the right moment, pulling close an handful of grinning detective despite his screaming tibia.

_But it was not today._


	5. Skype is Bittersweet

_Here I am, after sooo much time! Awfully sorry for the delay: working on zillions of stories at the same time is not a good idea, I suppose. Anyhow, another bittersweet chap for you: since I have no time line it is set in Tim's college years. It's a reflection over time, aging, and how difficult is both passing and accepting the baton. Ehy, don't do those faces: it's still funny, I swear!_

_Dedicated to my own big, awesome, crazy family._

**Skype is Bittersweet**

The first Tim thought about when he got the message, were Dad and Uncle Carl. His father kept eating those greasy sugar monstrosities every time Mom wasn't around, his uncle had never stopped drinking coffee with half sugar packet in it, and he had said them_ that you can't have the cholesterol skyrocketing like that and go away with it and oh fuck_. So as soon as he read Mina's text he was out of the library, dashing through the campus and risking a close encounter with three students and an hot dog stand.

_Trouble at home. Call soon, M._

_This time I'll kill my whole family, I swear._

When he got to his room the twilight was glowing on the trees' branches, so in Santa Barbara should be pretty late but guess what?, he didn't give a damn. Marcus was listening to some inane music while pretending to study Anthropology, so Tim nicely shouted him _to turn down that crap_ and went to his laptop. Screensaver, Skype, login. His heart was pounding so hard he couldn't breathe. When it asked his password he nearly freaked out.

Dad contact, call. Wait.

_He won't be there for my wedding. Uncle Carl would never help my kids with the History projects._

The webcam buzzed, connecting. The image of a dim-lit room flashed on the screen, oak chairs around a table, deco-style lamps scattered on every possible surface. The living room. A large hand blocked the view, two voices bickering unmistakably in the background.

Tim's heart flipped.

_Dad and Uncle Shawn. Oh thanks._

-Is it on this thingy?-

-Shawn, yes, it's Skype. You use it all the time!-

-But not with the tiniest screen ever. Did you find it in a cereal box?-

-Don't tell Jules...-

-Dad?- Tim stepped in. They were okay, he could find them annoying again. -Do you hear me?-

-Oh, hey, Tim-man!- Uncle Shawn's smile filled the screen. -All peachy there? Any news?-

_News?_

-Mina texted me during classes.- He took a deep breath. -She told me something happened at home. Is, is Mom?- He swallowed, hard. Tears pounding behind his eyes. -Is Uncle Carl? He had a seizure? I knew he shouldn't have eating all that cinna-

A voice echoed out of the monitor. Pissed, surly and definitively alive. -Ehy, ehy, why should I have a _seizure_?-

-No worries, Timmy.- Uncle Shawn sighed. -He's still safe and partially sane. And your lovely mother too.-

He had surely added some joke about sanity and 80's movies, but Tim was too busy collapsing to appreciate.

Meantime Uncle Carl had reached the table, sitting carefully next to Uncle Shawn. He put on his glasses and stretched toward the notepad screen; he tried not to wear them even risking to bump in every billboard along the sidewalk, so Tim felt flattered.

-Hi Tim. How has gone the Political Science exam?-

-Ah, well. I mean, it went well, thanks.- He answered, mechanically. -So let me make it clear, no one of you is hurt or dying or...?-

-Baby boy!- A rush of fluffy pale hair bumped in the screen, and his Mom's eyes blinked at him. Yeah, _at him_, right through the screen and all the way from California. -How's hanging, cupcake? How's Ella? You still see her? I like her, no police records, she doesn't wear extensions, good girl.-

-Mom, _please_.- Tim breathed in. It didn't work, he breathed again. -Care to say me why my sister sent me a red alarm?-

-Red alarm? There's such an app for the phone? Gus, you have it?-

-It's metaphorical, Shawn.-

-It's called Metaphorical?-

-Shut up you two!-

Tim sank his face in his hands, growling. Witnessing to his family's quarrels had always been plain fun, but right now he was feeling a pang of sympathy for the Chief Vick. -Guys, please. Has. Happened. Something. Bad?-

His voice should be really troubled, because Uncle Shawn actually stopped pretending to be a five-years-old. -Timmy, I told you, it's all okay. We're all here, crappy and old and deaf, _especially Gus_, but we're _all here_. Chill out. You're at college, you should thinking about quitting lessons and sneaking into awkward parties, not checking your old men. And your old women. How do you say that Lassie?-

His uncle answered, the others snorted.

Tim leaned back against the chair. It was all okay. They were okay, right there in front of him, like the week before and the week before that and all his twenty years of life. They were there.

Still he had seen how stiffly was moving Uncle Carl, how gray were getting Mom's hair. And suddenly he realized that one day it wouldn't be okay. One day one of them would not be there waving to him, and home would be a little less home.

_And you can't do a damn thing about it._

Before Tim could stop frowning at the screen, his phone began to buzz on the desk. A message, Mina. _Oh crap, maybe _she_ was in trouble._ He quickly unfolded the cell, reading. And feeling like a total idiot.

_Sneaked out from the rear door. Thanks for keeping them busy. M._

Oh, how he would so love to smash his little sister. With a press. Repeatedly.

Instead he sighed, turning back as a new argument fired on the screen. At least, all was well. Everyone was okay. He could go sleep with no fears.

Yet, he didn't turn off Skype until midnight.


End file.
